Houseficlet: Template
Moving up again to look at and tweak just a bit. Have added in Jack from the Fathers's Son-verse and an alternate book-reading from House.
Continuing to read over; comments and concrit are still entirely welcome.
ETA: Should've mentioned before -- this is not a death!fic.
Template
"No," Wilson said. "No. You don't understand. There's a ... connectedness ... to everything." He tossed his head on the rough pillow. "That's what this is all about. What it's always been about." The dim light of the oil lanterns caught his high cheekbones, accentuated the shadows under his fever-bright eyes.
"Shhhh, Jimmy. Hush," House murmured softly. "Rest now." He reached out, smoothing down the patchwork quilt. "It'll all be fine in the morning."
Wilson's breath hitched. "It won't be fine," he whispered. "You know it won't. We're still there, in those other places."
"What other places?"
"You know." Wilson's eyes rolled for just a moment, the whites showing. His gaze wandered over the room, catching on the fireplace mantel, the flickering hearth. "We're there. We'll always be there. You, and me."
"Where, Jimmy?"
"Domine," Wilson whispered, and House's breath caught in his throat. "Medice." Wilson closed his eyes. He was panting, his lungs laboring. "I heard you -- you wanted to free me."
House looked away, one hand scrubbing at his face.
"You're scared," Wilson said. "You've always been scared. Everywhere we've been, everywhere we still are, you're scared."
"Why shouldn't I be?" House asked. "This is all still new to me."
Wilson's breath whistled in and out of his throat. "Coward," he said. "After all this time. You think I like it any better than you do?" The patchwork quilt rose and fell. "You think I don't remember the other places?"
The hawk-brown eyes fixed on his.
"Captain."
A sudden wind seemed to sweep through the cabin; the lantern flickered. The earthen stink of raw trenches filled the air. There was a dull thunk, as if someone nearby had kicked a football, a scribbly scurrying sound, as of small claws against timber.
In the distance there was a soft rumble. Thunder, House thought. It's only thunder.
"Berlin," Wilson whispered. "The ruins still standing, the dosimeters. There's a hospital in New Jersey, in the United States -- we're there too."
"I know. I do remember. But there's nothing we can do about it."
Wilson's hand shot out, gripped his. "I'm afraid you'll die in that hospital."
House forced himself to smile reassuringly. "I'm not going to die and neither are you. You know how this works."
"I don't know how the can opener works," Wilson sighed, and House relaxed just a little bit. Wilson quoting movie lines was always a good sign. A light sheen of sweat shone on Wilson's brow; the fever was breaking.
"Does this happen to the others?"
"What others?" House dampened a folded washcloth and laid it across Wilson's forehead.
"Lisa Cuddy. Eric. The guy, the girl. Your kids. Mine. Evan, Church, Katie, Jack, all the others, through the years."
"Lisa --" House searched his memory, found a dark-haired woman. There'd been so many women, so many different times, but this one had laughed at him, made him laugh ...
"From the hospital," he said.
Wilson nodded.
"I don't know. I don't think anyone knows. We're the originals, the templates, and we don't know."
Outside, the wind was coming up. The logs in the fireplace sent up a small shower of sparks from the sudden downdraft. Raindrops began to spatter against the window.
Wilson's eyelids started to drift closed. "Why are we always together?"
House was still for a long moment. "I don't know," he said at last. "But I'm glad we are."
"Me too," Wilson murmured, and then he was asleep, breathing quietly, the congestion gone.
House sat by his side for a few more minutes, then stood up. Crossing the cabin floor, he knelt easily by a cabinet and took out a battered copper teapot, the surface of which shone like an old burnished coin. Measuring out a spoonful of loose tea, he dumped it into the globe-shaped strainer and twisted the two hemispheres shut. A soft moan from the bed distracted him, and he turned around.
It was nothing. Wilson slept on; he'd turned over and nuzzled his face deeper into his pillow, the same way a puppy would seek warmth or comfort.
House turned back to the task at hand. He filled the teapot with water from the tap and set it to heat over the stove's gas flame. He thought about what Wilson had said, and shook his head.
The truth of it was he'd given up trying to solve this puzzle a long time ago. Sometimes it ate at Wilson, like now, when he was sick, but for House the mystery was not how, but why. He would never know the answer to that question and so he had stopped thinking about it. As the years and then the decades had rolled by, he'd never seen any reason to revisit that decision.
It was enough that they were here, now.
There was a muffled cough, and House looked around. Wilson's eyes were open again, watching him.
"What, Jimmy? Go back to sleep."
Wilson drew the quilt tighter around his shoulders, snuggling down into the bed. "Can't sleep," he said. "Too tired."
House sank back down in the chair beside the bed. "You should rest. Big day tomorrow." Leaning down, he picked up the still-damp washcloth from where it had fallen on the floor.
Wilson smiled a little. "Yeah? Big day doing what?"
"Whatever comes," House said. The teakettle whistled just then, the bright, cheery sound a counterpoint to the thunder still rumbling in the distance. It was still raining, the drops tracing waterfall patterns down the windows. He rose and used the worn blue potholder to grip the teapot, and carefully poured two cups of tea, adding a splash of milk to his own.
Setting them both on the nightstand by the bed, he turned away again for a moment and pulled down a worn, leather-bound volume.
"Going to read me a bedtime story?" Wilson asked.
House settled himself in the chair again. "Shut up," he said amiably. He opened the book and turned to the first page. Outside, the rain continued to fall; inside, the logs fell and crackled in the fire. Tomorrow they could talk about this. Tomorrow they could talk about Rome, and Moscow, and Berlin, and about the hospital in New Jersey and the clinic in London, and about how life went on all the time and how they left pieces of themselves scattered through time and space. Tomorrow.
House cleared his throat and began to read.
Whether I shall turn out to be the hero of my own life, or whether that station will be held by anybody else, these pages must show. To begin my life with the beginning of my life, I record that I was born (as I have been informed and believe) on a Friday ...
~ fin
"How are you?" he said cordially, gripping my hand with a strength for which I should hardly have given him credit. "You have been in Afghanistan, I perceive." -- A Study In Scarlet
http://www.readeasily.com/charles-dickens/00077/000770002.php -- David Copperfield
http://www.4literature.net/Charles_Dickens/Tale_of_Two_Cities/
Continuing to read over; comments and concrit are still entirely welcome.
ETA: Should've mentioned before -- this is not a death!fic.
Template
"No," Wilson said. "No. You don't understand. There's a ... connectedness ... to everything." He tossed his head on the rough pillow. "That's what this is all about. What it's always been about." The dim light of the oil lanterns caught his high cheekbones, accentuated the shadows under his fever-bright eyes.
"Shhhh, Jimmy. Hush," House murmured softly. "Rest now." He reached out, smoothing down the patchwork quilt. "It'll all be fine in the morning."
Wilson's breath hitched. "It won't be fine," he whispered. "You know it won't. We're still there, in those other places."
"What other places?"
"You know." Wilson's eyes rolled for just a moment, the whites showing. His gaze wandered over the room, catching on the fireplace mantel, the flickering hearth. "We're there. We'll always be there. You, and me."
"Where, Jimmy?"
"Domine," Wilson whispered, and House's breath caught in his throat. "Medice." Wilson closed his eyes. He was panting, his lungs laboring. "I heard you -- you wanted to free me."
House looked away, one hand scrubbing at his face.
"You're scared," Wilson said. "You've always been scared. Everywhere we've been, everywhere we still are, you're scared."
"Why shouldn't I be?" House asked. "This is all still new to me."
Wilson's breath whistled in and out of his throat. "Coward," he said. "After all this time. You think I like it any better than you do?" The patchwork quilt rose and fell. "You think I don't remember the other places?"
The hawk-brown eyes fixed on his.
"Captain."
A sudden wind seemed to sweep through the cabin; the lantern flickered. The earthen stink of raw trenches filled the air. There was a dull thunk, as if someone nearby had kicked a football, a scribbly scurrying sound, as of small claws against timber.
In the distance there was a soft rumble. Thunder, House thought. It's only thunder.
"Berlin," Wilson whispered. "The ruins still standing, the dosimeters. There's a hospital in New Jersey, in the United States -- we're there too."
"I know. I do remember. But there's nothing we can do about it."
Wilson's hand shot out, gripped his. "I'm afraid you'll die in that hospital."
House forced himself to smile reassuringly. "I'm not going to die and neither are you. You know how this works."
"I don't know how the can opener works," Wilson sighed, and House relaxed just a little bit. Wilson quoting movie lines was always a good sign. A light sheen of sweat shone on Wilson's brow; the fever was breaking.
"Does this happen to the others?"
"What others?" House dampened a folded washcloth and laid it across Wilson's forehead.
"Lisa Cuddy. Eric. The guy, the girl. Your kids. Mine. Evan, Church, Katie, Jack, all the others, through the years."
"Lisa --" House searched his memory, found a dark-haired woman. There'd been so many women, so many different times, but this one had laughed at him, made him laugh ...
"From the hospital," he said.
Wilson nodded.
"I don't know. I don't think anyone knows. We're the originals, the templates, and we don't know."
Outside, the wind was coming up. The logs in the fireplace sent up a small shower of sparks from the sudden downdraft. Raindrops began to spatter against the window.
Wilson's eyelids started to drift closed. "Why are we always together?"
House was still for a long moment. "I don't know," he said at last. "But I'm glad we are."
"Me too," Wilson murmured, and then he was asleep, breathing quietly, the congestion gone.
House sat by his side for a few more minutes, then stood up. Crossing the cabin floor, he knelt easily by a cabinet and took out a battered copper teapot, the surface of which shone like an old burnished coin. Measuring out a spoonful of loose tea, he dumped it into the globe-shaped strainer and twisted the two hemispheres shut. A soft moan from the bed distracted him, and he turned around.
It was nothing. Wilson slept on; he'd turned over and nuzzled his face deeper into his pillow, the same way a puppy would seek warmth or comfort.
House turned back to the task at hand. He filled the teapot with water from the tap and set it to heat over the stove's gas flame. He thought about what Wilson had said, and shook his head.
The truth of it was he'd given up trying to solve this puzzle a long time ago. Sometimes it ate at Wilson, like now, when he was sick, but for House the mystery was not how, but why. He would never know the answer to that question and so he had stopped thinking about it. As the years and then the decades had rolled by, he'd never seen any reason to revisit that decision.
It was enough that they were here, now.
There was a muffled cough, and House looked around. Wilson's eyes were open again, watching him.
"What, Jimmy? Go back to sleep."
Wilson drew the quilt tighter around his shoulders, snuggling down into the bed. "Can't sleep," he said. "Too tired."
House sank back down in the chair beside the bed. "You should rest. Big day tomorrow." Leaning down, he picked up the still-damp washcloth from where it had fallen on the floor.
Wilson smiled a little. "Yeah? Big day doing what?"
"Whatever comes," House said. The teakettle whistled just then, the bright, cheery sound a counterpoint to the thunder still rumbling in the distance. It was still raining, the drops tracing waterfall patterns down the windows. He rose and used the worn blue potholder to grip the teapot, and carefully poured two cups of tea, adding a splash of milk to his own.
Setting them both on the nightstand by the bed, he turned away again for a moment and pulled down a worn, leather-bound volume.
"Going to read me a bedtime story?" Wilson asked.
House settled himself in the chair again. "Shut up," he said amiably. He opened the book and turned to the first page. Outside, the rain continued to fall; inside, the logs fell and crackled in the fire. Tomorrow they could talk about this. Tomorrow they could talk about Rome, and Moscow, and Berlin, and about the hospital in New Jersey and the clinic in London, and about how life went on all the time and how they left pieces of themselves scattered through time and space. Tomorrow.
House cleared his throat and began to read.
Whether I shall turn out to be the hero of my own life, or whether that station will be held by anybody else, these pages must show. To begin my life with the beginning of my life, I record that I was born (as I have been informed and believe) on a Friday ...
~ fin
"How are you?" he said cordially, gripping my hand with a strength for which I should hardly have given him credit. "You have been in Afghanistan, I perceive." -- A Study In Scarlet
http://www.readeasily.com/charles-dickens/00077/000770002.php -- David Copperfield
http://www.4literature.net/Charles_Dickens/Tale_of_Two_Cities/